


Unwinds

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Civilian Dean, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Dean Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is the likelihood of two hunters, with extensive histories of killing and been killed, not only buying a house together but also having steady jobs, good neighbors, and a comfortable living? </p><p>It just doesn’t happen. Ever.</p><p>Or at least, next to never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwinds

 

 

What is the likelihood of two hunters, with extensive histories of killing and been killed, not only buying a house together but also having steady jobs, good neighbors, and a comfortable living? 

It just doesn’t happen. Ever.

Or at least, next to never.

It certainly isn’t a scenario taught to hunters to expect or prepare for. Retirement typically means biting the dust. Kicking the bucket. That kind of stuff. Hunters don’t get to decide what furniture to purchase and where to place it in the house for maximum space and entertaining. They don’t get to have neighbors nice enough to box up leftovers for them after a family party to which they were personally invited and introduced to the block.

Things don’t fall in place that way. Not right away. Hell, not even when they are really fucking trying.   
  
But Dean Winchester has to admit that of the things that do fall into place, he now understands the difference between cumbia, merengue, and bachata.   
  
Little steps.   
  
Like right now, after a morning fending off what Sam calls anxiety attacks. Dean prefers to call it the jitters—he’s just spent all morning huddled up on the living room couch taking deep breaths  _ because he can _ . He made a conscious decision to pass the time that way. No way did his emotions have any control. 

And now, like someone completely unaffected by psychological crap, he attempts to make breakfast. 

He likes to cook; he enjoys it, really. And just like at the bunker, he’s got a kitchen here. It’s not a shitty kitchenette in a dingy motel room and he’s not following the orders from John to feed Sammy a can of Chef Boyardee so they can clean and take inventory of weapons.   
  
How the three of them made it so long without getting scurvy is anyone’s guess. Maybe the lettuce served on the burgers they ate at diners counted for something after all. Or, possibly, there are nutritional benefits to eating a dinner that consists of Funyuns and Dr. Pepper. Theirs was a childhood made up of white Wonder Bread and cans of slimy pasta. Somehow, John’s boys grew into six-foot-plus individuals, one of whom walks into a room and towers above everyone, too tall to even talk to, the freaking Sasquatch.   
  
Stop. He needs to stop. He has to stop thinking about little things. Because it’s not like he has one of these anxious, frantic episodes once a day; it’s more like he has several small ones, stuck in his head like shards of a broken bottle. Who knows what triggers him? It’s kind of a combination of everything. How can you avoid everything? He can’t. They can’t. 

That’s life.   
  
Cracking eggs open into a bowl, Dean scrambles them up with a fork. He’s got to keep his hands busy. This is a good outlet for him, though he won’t admit it to Sam, and most things they eat lately, he makes.   
  
The onions and tomatoes were the first to sizzle in the pan, with a small dollop of olive oil. A week ago, Sam gave a lecture about how it’s better than canola oil, but Dean keeps a bottle of canola around because olive oil is shit to fry with. The eggs follow after everything’s had a chance to cook down—so the onions don’t bite as sharply—and he keeps stirring. Sam can’t make scrambled eggs. He burns them, every single time, until they aren’t eggs anymore; they’re sad pieces of black-yellow string.   
  
One of the short order cooks at a diner somewhere in Michigan taught Dean the secret to scrambled eggs. The trick is to keep moving the eggs, turn them over, and to lower the flame of the burner. Dean follows the advice so that everything has a chance to cook and absorb air. Thirty seconds before completion, he tosses in chunks of Chihuahua cheese. It melts better than pepper jack.   
  
With an elegant sweep—he knows he’s god damn graceful at this—he slides the eggs out of the pan and onto two waiting plates. Toast, orange juice, and butter are already on the table.   
  
On the way over to the table, he trips over a book. A god… damned…  _ book _ .   
  
“Sammy!” Dean snaps and pads over to the table with more care, not wanting to smash his toes into yet  _ another _ fucking tome.   
  
Sasquatch rushes into the tiny dining room, occupying ninety percent of the space, and grabs his plate. Long fingers sweep up two pieces of toast and a cup of orange juice.   
  
“Mmphsorry,” Sam manages to blurt out right before shoveling a mass of eggs and toast into his mouth. The sight makes Dean a little sick and less likely to dig into his plate with the gusto he’d had thirty seconds before. Sam disappears again in a rush of papers and with a slam of the front door.   
  
_ Is this supposed to be the good life? _ Dean pushes his eggs around his plate.

  
  
* * *

  
  
At four in the afternoon, Dean finds himself at the museum a few blocks over from their house. He doesn’t visit often, since he prefers to stick around the main street where it’s louder and less residential, more like a city. Sam though, he’s here all the fucking time.   
  
So when Sam doesn’t answer his cellphone after ten tries and he’s late and should’ve been home by now, Dean drives to the museum. He double parks and doesn’t care. The place is small but it takes five minutes before he sees that aggravating mop of brown, shaggy hair, half falling out of its ponytail. Why Sam even bothers pulling it back, he doesn’t know.   
  
Sam speaks to a young Latina woman who looks like a colleague. Dressed business casual, she exudes a clear interest in the package before her. Possessiveness doesn’t cut close to what or how Dean feels. But he hangs back, interested to see what others see.   
  
From years of experience impersonating a professor, Sam maintains an academic air and uses technical language when referencing a mural. He’s engaged and talks with crisp, bright tones, hands fluttering occasionally to emphasize a few points. His stance stays open, confident, and relaxed. Dean leans against a wall and smirks at the scene before him. Sam is Sam is Sam.   
  
But he knows that. 

No one else does, though he knows--god he knows--others have had their glimpses.   
  
This young lady though, she perks up, thinks that this Sam might be the perfect catch. A guy who’s easy on the eyes, good basic hygiene, dresses nice despite the nerdy sweater vests, and knows a lot of shit about shit that matters. He’s not boring, at least not to her, and his composure must also mean he’s clean, orderly, and tidy. Dean can see her making assumptions and wishes.

She reaches out to touch Sam’s left arm—that arm—and Dean takes action. He can only be the silent observer for so long.   
  
“Sam!” Dean barks, enjoying the flinches it gets from the two of them. Immediately, he hears a heavy sigh from Sam, who turns and shoots him a glance that very clearly warns: do not embarrass me. 

Dean grins and gives Sam a pat on the back, squeezing his shoulder hard, once. The lady’s gaze changes and Dean is satisfied. “There you are buddy, did you forget we have dinner plans?”   
  
In a former life, when he was not a Winchester, Dean knows with absolute certainty that Sam was a prissy, old white woman. Because the way Sam purses his lips in anger—yeah, Dean is familiar with that face.   
  
“Marcela, this is Dean,” Sam mutters out, gesturing half-assed at Dean. “He’s ex-military, please excuse his manners.”   
  
Before Dean complains, Marcela offers her hand. She’s got a firm grip and makes direct eye contact, which throws Dean off a bit. She reminds him of someone. Or many someones.   
  
Marcela speaks with the same confidence as her eye contact. “It’s a pleasure,” she says smoothly. “Sam and I were just having a lovely discussion about the mural here.”   
  
This needs to end. Now. Dean is hungry and annoyed--small talk won’t fix any of that. Underneath the surface of his skin a thrumming exists, eager to act, urging him to pull his brother’s hair back and test the durability of the new bed they just purchased last week.   
  
Except… Sam shows no signs or intentions of moving.   
  
In fact, Sam and Marcela ignore him and continue to talk. Dean decides to go for broke. He puts his left hand on the small of Sam’s back and rubs two counterclockwise circles--nothing beats touch memory. Not even the most interesting conversation about a mural. Sam’s expression softens. His eyes glance over to Dean, displaying irritation, curiosity, and most importantly, interest. 

Sam excuses himself, but Marcela leaves first. 

Dean can practically feel the car door handle so they can get the hell home. Before he snaps at Sam to get a move on, Sam looks at him funny. Well, not  _ funny _ —that’s just Sam’s face—but  _ pointedly _ .   
  
“You are something else,” Sam mutters and shake his head. “Like a child, I swear to god.”   
  
“Am not,” Dean grumbles and hides his pout. Men in their mid-forties do not pout. Especially not Winchester men. “Can we go?” He also hopes that didn’t sound as whiny as he thinks it did.   
  
Sam finally smiles, soft and easy, and clears his throat. “Dean, just… can I show you something?”   
  
“Can you show me something at home? In my bed? Underneath me?” Dean pleads, but ultimately follows Sam through a few rooms. They pass plenty of colored walls, so bright and bold Dean thinks about what they’d look like inside a house and not a museum. Would it be overkill? That shade of blue isn’t bad.   
  
They stop in front of another mural, this one larger and off-putting to Dean at first. He can’t look at it straight. There’s too much going on. It floors him, makes him dizzy.   
  
“Yeah, most people have that reaction,” Sam chuckles. “You’re trying to take it in too fast. Stop, step back.” One giant paw rests on Dean’s chest and pushes him backwards two steps. Dean still can’t focus. He tries to get centered but fails. Blue stands out as the most dominant color throughout the mural, however, a plethora of other colors thread and wind through that hardly any single figure or theme can be pieced apart or together.   
  
“There’s a hundred different opinions out there about this mural, Dean,” his brother murmurs into the shell of his ear. “What happens when art disorients you? Is it still art? Do the overlapping layers signify the intricacy of life or our inability to distinguish where we begin or end? What’s the very first layer of paint and does that matter to its meaning?” 

Sam breathes out and nips at Dean’s ear, which causes him to flinch. He’s lost in Sam’s low, soothing voice, which is thick and accented with a drawl Sam very rarely gets. They never grew up in any one part of the country, and if things had been different they’d have been true-blue Kansas boys, but Sam somehow got this twang, this kind of speech pattern and inflection that Dean knows he was made to react to.   
  
A small kiss finds itself pressed against the soft spot behind Dean’s ear. “You know what I find really interesting about this piece, Dean?”   
  
At a complete loss for words and unable to form a sentence, Dean utters, “Hm?”    
  
“He mixed his own blood, sweat, and semen into the paint.”   
  
Dean’s first reaction is to cringe and wonder what the fuck. But the more he thinks about it, the more his curiosity nags at him. He takes another look at the mural, more determined to piece together further understanding. Why mix in your bodily fluids? For what?   
  
Of course, Sam takes pleasure in Dean’s reactions. “Huh, thought you’d be calling me gross by now.” He stands back, gives Dean a little bit of room.   
  
“Hey, I can appreciate art,” Dean mutters. “I can… talk about this stuff…”   
  
“ _ Ooookay. _ So tell me what you see at the center?”   
  
“Uh. Well. It’s. Obviously. Uh.” Dean squints and leans forward a little. “It’s everything, all at once.”   
  
The silence makes Dean think maybe he got the answer wrong. Like, way, way wrong. And he’s uncomfortable for a moment. Little brothers shouldn’t be able to make older brothers feel this way. Dean never went to college; he didn’t take Art History 101, because he needed an elective and that sounded interesting. He’s made his peace with that whole thing—Sammy’s whole thing—but there are still times like this moment when Dean wonders. What is a guy like Sam doing with a guy like him—brothers and apocalypse and fighting heaven and hell aside?   
  
“You’re not wrong,” Sam finally says and playfully nudges Dean’s jaw with his fist. “Guess you are capable of intellectual thought.”   
  
“Hey! I taught you how to tie your shoes,” Dean growls out and glares at the floor. “I wiped your ass and changed your diapers, asshole.”   
  
“Mmm, and now what do you do to my ass?”   
  
“Nothing I can talk about here.”

“Since when does public decency stop you?”

“Well, in that case…”

“No. Save it for home.”His brother just smirks and starts to walk away. “Let’s just say I was having a tough day and I’m really glad you showed up.” 

Dean follows on Sam’s heels. Within two minutes they at long last reach the outside. Fifteen feet away from the building, Sam light up a cigarette as easy as breathing. One long drag and Dean can tell now—stressful day, indeed.   
  
“I have all this paperwork in here,” Sam murmurs and holds up his briefcase. “Grant writing and program proposals and legal permits for some of the larger events. And y’know what, Dean? Every time I sit at my desk I think about us in bits and pieces. We took out a nest a month ago. A shape shifter two months back.” Sam paces by the Impala, replacing one cigarette with another, his strides long and elegant despite the anxiety in his voice. “Sometimes the phone rings and I think Bobby might be on the other line, calling back with the right spell. How… no. No. You know what’s important? It’s that I get to stand in a nice place looking at a mural with you. And you get it.”   
  
Dean tries his best to sort out everything Sam rapidly lobs at him. He scrambles to come up with a proper response in return. How to express that he feels the same way. He’s got his job at the garage and sometimes the thought that this is what John did for a living before—it’s overwhelming. It’s like John might as well be standing right behind him, watching every car he fixes, waiting to tell him how he did it wrong. How he’s still doing it wrong. _ And what the fuck are you doing to Sammy? How is fucking him taking care of him, Dean? _   
  
“Dean?” Sam asks, tentatively. He looks shy. As shy as someone who is six-foot-five can be. “Did I… catch on to the whole tying-my-shoes-thing pretty fast?”   
  
Dean can almost laugh at that. All the experience he has with children is because of Sam. That’s what he’s always drawn from when kids inevitably crossed their path. 

“Yeah, Sam, you did. Didn’t take more than a few lessons. Same with reading. Same with writing. Same with everything you’ve ever managed to fit in that gigantic brain of yours.”   
  
“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” Sam’s eyes appear softer. 

Instinct tells Dean to comfort him, but habit demands that he run away from all these emotions. 

Some hint of that must show on his face because Sam takes a deep breath to compose himself and gives Dean a shaky smile. “The worst part of tonight is fighting you over which taco place to go to.”   
  
Dean takes that for what it is.   
  
Because the biggest step—and one neither of them have completely finished—is taking Sam for who he is. Sam leaves clothes and books all over the place at home. He can’t cook worth a damn because he never had to learn. Sam stays up late and wakes up early without any problem. He jogs ten miles every single day and stinks after he’s done. He does laundry like some uncivilized barbarian—tosses everything in one load. He still doesn’t know shit about cars; Lord help him with anything more complicated than changing a tire. He listens to whiny music by musicians with too much money and daddy issues . He snores and he’s an octopus no matter which bed they sleep in for the night. His hair clogs up the bathroom drains.   
  
He still has this unwavering belief that most people are inherently good.   
  
Dean opens the car door for Sam. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sammy. There won’t  _ be  _ any fighting because you know Los Comales is where we’re going.”   
  
“Dean, the salsa there gives even you heartburn.”   
  
“Then I guess you’ll just have to put up with me after.”   
  
Sam gives Dean that megawatt grin; the one that instantly crumbles him like queso fresco. They pull onto the main street and join the stop-and go-traffic of the evening. The Impala drives past the pushcart vendors for paletas and elotes, in the midst of a neighborhood they’re slowly getting to know. People like them don’t turn them into Mr. and Mrs. America overnight. He won’t ever forget his past and John Winchester will always be with them, for better or for worse. And Dean knows he is the same person who can fix an engine by sound only and can kill with only his hands.

He has to circle the block to find a good parking spot. Sam spots it and pats his knee with one hand while pointing to the spot with the other. Dean parallel parks without a problem, years of experience at work. Nothing worth having comes easy. Perfect eggs don’t just get made. They are prepared. No one is born knowing how to cope with stress or trauma. And definitely no one is born understanding how to interpret art--with or without semen mixed into the painting. 

It feels odd learning these things at his age. Everyone else around them seems to have mastered the art of feeling and facing emotions. 

Inside the taco shop, they stand side by side and wait to order. Dean already knows what he’ll ask for--a beer and steak tacos--and predicts Sam’s order as well. He muscles his way to the register before Sam and manages to pay. They take a seat at a table in the corner and wait. And that’s when Sam says something that makes Dean breathe a little easier. 

“Jerk.”   
  
The tight coil of anxiety in Dean’s chest unwinds. This is everything, all at once.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm slowly editing this series with a wonderful beta, M. Just taking a few things out, shifting from passive tense to awesome tense. About 500 words were added to this piece, so read through again! Also, the mural referred to is by Mario Castillo and his work at the NMMA in Pilsen. :)


End file.
